


(A)sexual education

by hannapalooza



Series: The Influence of Irene [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannapalooza/pseuds/hannapalooza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After meeting Irene Adler, Sherlock has some questions and wants John to provide the answers. John, in his turn is curious about how Sherlock feels about sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing anything for about four years. Un beta-ed (looking for volunteers) CONCRIT HUGELY WELCOME. Warnings for run on sentences and gratuitous over use of commas.

I’m standing by the window in the sitting room, usually enough life passing by at the obliquely downward angle to keep me mildly distracted if nothing else is tugging at my attention. Currently vaguely amused by Mrs Turner’s cat attempting to stalk a pigeon that’s clearly out of his jumping range. It’s a familiar feeling, the sudden awareness that John is nearby, his distinctive gait, stance, presence so firmly embedded in my memory that it registers from just a peripheral glance. I watch him say goodnight to, whatever her name is, next to the waiting taxi, idly cataloguing measurements of personal space, timing of kiss, movements of hands (hers – possessive, needy, tangled in his hair, his – detached, aloof, fingers lightly clenched on her shoulder). He breaks the kiss first (11 seconds) and I discern the (annoyed? Dazed? Aroused?) gasp that exits her mouth in the frigid air. The viewing angle isn’t sufficient for any concrete analysis of her facial expressions, but I can clearly read calm resignation in the set of John’s shoulders, the reasonable empathy in the tilt of his head. Tiny eyes (and I probably shouldn’t call her that to John’s face) laughs once, a short exhalation – bitter not amused, and clambers back into the taxi with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

 

I know that John habitually glances up at the sitting room windows before ascending to the front door so I take a step back into the shadow of the wall, aware that he wouldn’t take scientific curiosity as a valid reason to be so privy to that private moment. Donovan had called me a voyeur recently, and the word with its sordid sexual undertones had offended me more than it had any rational right to. Maybe it was the intimation that she (and by extension others) found me somehow perverse in my interest, that my passion for that moment of pure, incandescent crystalline knowledge was in some way subversive, that I was some sort of deviant. Although to her detriment she had only managed to conjure up the epithet of freak with which to attempt to humble me. 

 

And those designations (including my own use of the word passion I reluctantly accepted), all so entangled with nonsense emotions; the shame, the guilt and taboo, sex defined as dirty, filthy, some sort of dark stain that sullied a person’s chastity or worth like blood on white linen. And yet, and yet, people still desired, hungered, and on occasion even rejoiced in their conquest of someone; there seemed to be a basic human need to taste, to imprint the scent and touch of another upon themselves, to see someone abandoned and undone by them and for them. This is somehow normal and I am the aberration. 

 

Collapsing onto the blessed comfort of the worn sofa I allow my musings to languidly unspool, background chatter, as I listen to John climbing the stairs (not skipping the 3rd, 7th and 10th steps as he would do in a better mood) and enter the flat without a greeting. Maybe he doesn’t want to disturb me, more likely I’d witnessed a goodbye kiss of the more permanent persuasion. The sound of water rushing into the kettle for 10 seconds (enough for the big tea pot) confirmed my deduction, and I turned more attention back to my thoughts, knowing his tea making routine down to the second and finding no further distraction therein. 

 

I begrudgingly admitted to myself that maybe sexuality, lust, love, even perhaps fucking, were topics that I could benefit from understanding a little better. I had successfully reviewed and unpicked the majority of my (and god were there no less emotive words to use for these things?) relationship with the woman. She was a glorious contradiction, using the grace of her femininity as a blunt instrument of manipulation, nudity and sex as both armour and a weapon with which to disarm her opponents. All that fierce intelligence and yet she relied on cheap, base tricks to gain an advantage, motivation writ clear and unable to comprehend that it had been the novelty, her defiance of the norm that had thrown me. Alas, for all her bravado the moment my fingers brushed against her pulse she laid herself bare to me in a way she hadn’t been prepared for, her artifice shattered; although I doubt I took as much pleasure in her humiliation as she did with her clients. In the end I understood that I was not just in a minority but was in fact an impossibility in her world view, and not only because I saw the value in her brain not her body. And if her occasional lurid text messages were any indication she still hadn’t grasped exactly what it was that made me so unique in her reality. 

 

John appears bearing two mugs of steaming tea, a banana sticking incongruously out of his hip pocket. 

“When am I getting my tea tray back Sherlock?” he grouses “if it’s not in the next two days I’m not fetching for you any more, it’s bloody ridiculous.”  
Setting my tea on the coffee table (and it amused me no end that no matter how many times he complained about being my serf he always put the mug within my reach, the handle pointing towards me) he extracts the banana with a grimace “well that felt weird” and retreats to his chair, glancing at the topmost book on the teetering pile to discern its value before placing his mug on top. 

“You could always take multiple trips to the kitchen, it’s not like our living arrangements are particularly commodious” I opine, dead pan, raising my head to catch the brief dumb founded look cross his face.

“So says the overgrown teenager in the corner who can’t even be arsed to move five feet to fetch his own damn laptop!” he snaps back, but as I hoped there’s more amusement than indignation in his tone. 

“Touché” I acknowledge with a smirk, gracing him with a point and observing him relax into a smile. 

“I broke up with Alice.” 

Because of course he’d remind me of her name when it wasn’t relevant any more. I bite off the “I know” that was on the tip of my tongue; manage a “why?” 

He looks thoughtful for a moment as he peels the banana, takes a bite. “You’ll like this one actually. She was boring.” 

“Most people are John, glad to see my influence finally rubbing off on you.”

He mimes panic stricken and I huff a laugh, musing for a moment on the seemingly endless entertainment the many faces of John Watson provide me, swiftly calculating exactly how inappropriate it would be to fleece him at poker, concluding that it would most likely be one of those things categorised as “not good” underlined twice with a furrowed brow, not to mention the acute lack of challenge it would actually present me with. I abandon the idea. 

“So you’re looking for more than just physical attraction in these” I twirl my wrist expressively as the word falls into place “endeavours of yours? Interesting.” 

John squints for a brief moment; processing. “Why is that interesting?” He quirks a half smile “Worried I’m going to find someone better and leave you?”

The laugh that bubbles up is genuine, unguarded; I still find it slightly irritating that John has that ability. “Ridiculous” I assert “I know you love me.” I sweep my legs off the sofa and reach for my tea. 

“I...no...I” he splutters, nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times before. 

“Oh not like that you idiot. Philia not Eros, I’m not impugning your manhood, or whatever it is you feel happens when people _accuse_ you of homosexuality.” 

A fleeting look of confusion gives way to a flash of fear before John hurriedly drops his eyes and gropes blindly for his mug, still not understanding that avoiding my gaze is just as telling, even if I’m not entirely sure of the why yet. He takes two big gulps of tea, studiously keeping his head lowered and I’m aware that I’ve steered the conversation wrongly. My questions will have to wait for a more opportune time. No matter it would give me further time to formulate more rigorous and informative lines of enquiry. Placing my empty mug back onto the coffee table I rise fluidly to my feet and with a muttered “good night” for the sake of the courtesy that John finds so comforting, head to my room.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake in a familiar position, hum of a laptop fan next to my ear, cheek pressed against the scarred wood of the kitchen table, insipid morning light filtering through the kitchen window, stiff muscles a niggling ache across my shoulders. As I rise my eye catches on the equation I was creating hypotheses for before the last of the caffeine and nicotine dripped from my system and I had dropped into unconsciousness. 

 

_Input: Exp/Reass +K (new??) + I  
Output: Conf + F(+) + x (??) = y_

 

I know, had known last night that attempting to solve for _y_ without knowing the parameters of _x_ was futile, but the problem, ok the realisation that there were still aspects to this man that I hadn’t posited, concluded, confirmed already had niggled until I’d forced my evidence-less conclusions into a hastily constructed list to stop them circling my awareness. Adding _AR_ as the final entry I swipe at the track pad to save the file and minimise it out of existence. The more pertinent challenge, the other plan I had been working on blinks back onto the screen, jumps to the forefront of my consciousness, and I swiftly reread my notes as I stretch the fatigue from my back and neck. 

 

The majority of my awareness on the problem at hand I gather my towel and head quietly to the shower (one of those quirks of social convention, allowing my flatmate uninterrupted sleep, only ever remarked upon when it was ignored). I stand unflinching under the too-hot spray, the white noise a pleasant undertone to my thoughts. I was quietly grateful that John had gone to bed mere minutes after I’d disappeared the previous night. I was unused to having to manipulate him in precisely this manner, and didn’t relish being trapped in my bedroom. Almost empty space; the only place in my discordant chaotic existence that was organised and uncluttered. I hated spending time there, surrounded by all those moments of weakness, of sentimentality – the battered wooden trunk that had followed me from boarding school to boarding school, the poster of the periodic table, a gag gift from a friend at university who knew full well I’d memorised the entire thing at age 5, the frankly exquisite (not that I’d ever admit it to him) Chinese pottery that Mycroft had gifted me over the years; the entire room coloured with memories and emotions I’d rather never acknowledge, and yet couldn’t bear to pack away out of sight. I had paced quietly in bare feet, keeping my head down, concentrating on stealth (each foot placed precisely, firmer across the arches, finding the specific angle of movement to minimise the whisper of skin on floor), enjoying the tactile disparity between the floorboards and the rug, alert to the predictable (and in that way comforting) noises of John’s bedtime routine. I had emerged twenty minutes after his door closed, installing myself at the kitchen table with notebook and laptop, familiar territory. 

 

Body and hair scrupulously clean, I take a sweeping glance down the length of myself and try not to sigh. Time for the first part of the experiment. I squeeze a little shower gel onto my palm and take myself gently in hand. It had been too many years to count since I’d actively attempted to arouse myself, and at least six months since I’d woken with an annoyingly intractable erection and had gotten rid of it in the most efficient manner I knew. I stroke myself a few times from root to tip, providing myself a slideshow of faceless and generic sexual characteristics – breasts, lips, buttocks, penises. It doesn’t work, I remain stubbornly flaccid and increasingly bored. My attention is becoming distracted by a re-evaluation of last night’s work, and I absently continue to move my hand as I allow myself to become absorbed, the slideshow fading as I conjure up a visual representation of my thoughts, searching for flaws in methodology or reasoning, striving for that icy taste of clear, complete objectivity, that acid etched rationality. I quickly track back through the threads of dead ended enquiry, checking once more for a spark to reintegrate them into the whole. 

 

I imagine it’s akin to being electrified; the split second of body rigor, the involuntary exhalation from stiffened lungs, as the final neuron fires and the picture is perfect and complete, solid and unbreakable. I feel my elevated heart beat in the pulse of my cock, wryly amused (and more than slightly relieved) that I was apparently not _unmoved_ by the rush of clarity, the biochemical bliss of the perfect solution. I lean forward to allow the spray to beat against my neck and shoulders, brace one palm against the wall, close my eyes and concentrate on the pure physical sensation of the slick slide of my hand , fingers tightly curled and moving fast, the most efficient way to bring myself to orgasm. The moment arrives blessedly fast, another stutter of breath and tightening of muscles as I spill onto the shower floor. I am light-headed for a moment, my mind disturbingly blank for a few seconds, until awareness floods my senses once more. 

 

The small bathroom is steam filled when I open my eyes, and I swiftly rinse the plughole and turn off the shower before I use up all the hot water (an unclean John tends to be a grumpy and uncooperative John and that was the opposite of what I needed today). Wrapping myself in the radiator-warmed towel I take a thorough look at my face (skin flushed pink, more obviously on cheeks and forehead and chest, pupils dilated more than I expected) cataloguing the information for analysis when I was dressed. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Seated back at my perch by the kitchen table, a brand-new nicotine patch sighing its chemical clarity into my skin, and an overly sweet mug of instant coffee steaming gently within my reach, I open a new document on my laptop to begin the tedious business of analysing my masturbatory experience. I’m vaguely irritated with myself; becoming distracted during the process hadn’t been intentional, and it meant I was unaware at what point I had become aroused, and so had to estimate my timings – this was unsatisfactory but I was loathe to repeat the experiment, and decided that it probably wasn’t overly important, I wasn’t looking to overtly compare my sexual experiences with John’s after all. There were definite physical parallels between my moment of orgasm and the frisson (another word appropriated and sexualised, but apt in this context none the less) that I felt when my brain delivered an answer of the utmost complexity and beauty, and a subtle approximation of the moment after the chase, when blood sang in my ears and every nerve in my body felt as tight and sweet as a newly strung violin. On a deeper level though it had felt completely different, no sense of accomplishment or invincibility; I felt no guilt or shame (I would never deign to be so prosaic) but the artificial acceleration of my circulatory and respiratory functions for no practical purpose made the immediate aftermath joyless and tainted, the hot taste of adrenaline on my tongue soured not savoured. The moment of blankness in my mind had been vaguely unpleasant; in retrospect I had still been aware (I recalled the cold wet tile under my braced hand, the water sluicing down my back and pattering into the bath, the laxity of my muscles and the sound of my breath) but at the time it had felt like a split second of severed contact with my mind, and that was disconcerting at best. A prickle of uneasiness lazed its way down my spine, a tiny spark of fear that always accompanied thoughts of losing my most precious asset (even for a second it seemed.) I bounce to my feet and shake myself loose, random graceless movements that send my dressing gown snapping around me but somehow always seem to help, quietly recite every fourth digit of π to 50 decimal places, and gulp at my rapidly cooling coffee until equilibrium is restored.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

My adorably predictable flat-mate steps into the kitchen a mere ten seconds after the toast pops. I hear him stop at the door, no doubt taking in the scrubbed kitchen table, the freshly brewed cafetiere of his favourite coffee, the clean mugs, and then the scrape of chair leg against floor as he takes a seat. I turn with a flourish a plate of freshly buttered toast in my hand, and offer it to him with a smile. I see him appraising my face (or at least attempting to) before taking a slice and inspecting it cautiously. I sit opposite him and pour the coffee for both of us. His face is drawn in concentration, a tinge of worry in his eyebrows, until I snag another piece of toast and take a bite as an act of reassurance. He visibly relaxes at that, spreading a thick layer of blueberry jam onto his own slice and smiling his thanks as he bites down. 

“Out with it then.” 

I try not to look pained that he’s speaking with his mouth full of toast, raise an eyebrow in question. He finishes the bite, drops the toast onto his plate. “I’m not an idiot Sherlock, you either want something from me, or have done something _to_ me, so...out with it.” 

I smile, nod at his deduction (I’d realised early on that it never hurt to stroke John’s ego occasionally). “You’re quite right John, I require your assistance in something.” 

John relaxed further at that, safe in the knowledge that his person and his belongings were intact for now. 

“Recently, it has been brought to my attention that I may have a blind spot in a certain specific area of human relations. That is - due to my own predilections and lifestyle I have little to no working knowledge of human sexuality. Whilst previously I never saw this as a failing, it seems that had I been more aware of the _woman’s_ emotional state, the entire case may have been wrapped up rather more promptly, and with less...” 

I break my flow when I catch sight of John’s face. He appears horror struck, coffee mug hovering in mid air between his mouth and the table, his mouth positively gaping (but at least empty of food). I quickly review what I’ve just said, not noting any cause for such a stricken expression. “John?” I prompt gently “Are you alright?”

John shakes his head hard and fast as though to clear some mental image, takes a belated sip of coffee, squares his shoulders and looks me in the eye “I am not going to have sex with you Sherlock.” 

I actually choke at that, mouthful of coffee spurting indelicately from my mouth, a trickle trying to force into my lungs and I cough hard, my eyes suddenly streaming. John leaps to his feet “Shit! Sorry, are you alright?” he mimics back at me, grabbing a glass from the side and fetching me some water, hovering behind me but not touching. I take a sip, wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my dressing gown, mopping up the spill on the table with a piece of kitchen roll and gesturing to John to sit back down. 

I cough once more to clear my throat and look steadily back at him “That really wasn’t what I was proposing John, I just wanted to ask you some questions about your own experiences, that’s all.” 

John breaks into laughter at that, his entire body relaxing and his face becoming open and easy. 

I grin, start to laugh a little myself as I spit out “I’m married to my work dear, you know that” which only makes him laugh harder. 

“Right...God...” he gasps between laughs “I was worried there for a second.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself “What do you want to know?” 

I am slightly surprised that he agreed so readily, somewhat annoyed that I probably hadn’t needed to make him breakfast to persuade him. “I have a number of questions and scenarios to ask you, it shouldn’t take more than a few hours.” I gesture to my laptop. 

“Oh I should’ve known that this wouldn’t be just a normal conversation between blokes” John sighs, but he doesn’t look irritated “I’m assuming you have experimental parameters and all that?”

I don’t dignify that with a response, he knows me well enough by now to know that I take research very seriously. He sighs again “Ok, I’ll play along, I’ll be your sex guru” I can’t help but laugh a little at that “but I do have a condition of my own.” 

I search his face, but honestly have no idea what he’s going to ask me. I can’t abide being wrong footed or unsure so head him off “Research participants can’t make demands of the experimenter. It may adversely affect results.” I remind him, a touch pompously. 

“This isn’t an RCT Sherlock, it’s err” John’s brow furrows as he searches for the correct terminology “Dammit, it’s not epidemiological...” He looks to me for help.

“I think the term you’re searching for is ethnographic. As a Doctor John, you really should remember these things” I reply smoothly.

“Aah, but I don’t need to remember them when I have my own walking Wikipedia to correct me do I?” 

I don’t bother to hide my disgust “did you just compare me to Wikipedia?” my voice is high, incredulous, and John is openly amused at my indignation. 

“Ok, ok” he flaps his hand in a calming gesture “sorry, of course I meant the” he screws his eyes up for a second “1914 Encyclopaedia Britannica.” 

“1911” I correct gruffly “Does everything fall out of your brain? It’s not as if it’s hard to remember, half of the volumes are scattered around the flat after all.” 

John narrows his eyes at me “Don’t insult me Sherlock, or I won’t play. But anyway my previous point still stands – the type of study you are proposing will not be adversely affected by my condition of consent.” 

I finish the last of my coffee, and nod for John to continue.  
“Turn about.” 

I’m loathe to say it but I have to. “I don’t understand.” 

“I tell you everything you want to know, I’ll be as honest and detailed as I can. But in return you’ve got to tell me about yourself.” 

“Do you comprehend that asexuality means having no desire for sexual intercourse? Which at the very least intimates a lack of lascivious tales with which to titillate you?” 

“Yes” John replies, patiently “To be honest, I find the whole idea of asexuality interesting, so it seemed like a good opportunity to ask you some questions about it. I’m not looking to _titillate_ myself. Call it a parallel study if it helps.” 

I consider his proposal. John is right, it will not affect the outcome of my own research, and I had no qualms about discussing such topics with him. In truth I was a little flattered that he was interested enough in it (in me?) to want to understand it. I nod “I’m amenable to your condition.” 

John smirks, wipes his mouth on a piece of kitchen roll and gets to his feet. “Great. I’m going to go and take a shower then, you can do the washing up and make a pot of tea.” He's out of the kitchen and half way up the stairs before I have time to formulate a suitably sarcastic response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 1911 Encyclopaedia Britannica is widely acknowledged as the best edition and is seen by many as the last stand of the Enlightenment before the shadow of the first world war: 
> 
> http://www.teleread.com/ebooks/the-lasting-appeal-of-the-1911-encyclopedia-britannica/
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism gladly received.


End file.
